


Untitled

by heartisafist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartisafist/pseuds/heartisafist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very short prompt fic. Sam gets a mostly unexpected visitor in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually written from prompts provided for a fanwork exchange. Headaches, written word and raised hairs were what I was given, with a rule for no sexual content or words of possession. 
> 
> Just a tiny ficlet, set, I imagine, in an alternate universe where Sam helped avert the Apocalypse in a different manner.

It’s been days since Dean stormed out of their cheap motel room. Days since the door slamming rattled the window and jarred dust from the ratty drapes, days since Dean caught Sam’s visitor in the room and went after him with a tire iron, like that would really do anything.

But it’s only been a few minutes since Sam last checked his phone to see if there was a missed call or text, dread creeping higher every moment that little inbox symbol is blank.  
Hunched over a small table overflowing with stale-smelling textbooks, charts, his laptop and takeout bags, Sam sighs and sets the phone back on his knee. Dean’s capable of taking care of himself, but that isn’t going to stop Sam from worrying. That’s his job. And the case they’ve been working on in town is making it worse. There’s something out there, something preying on entire families that they haven’t been able to figure out yet. Over the last week all they’ve managed to do is dig up a couple graves and a ton of bad leads. Whatever it is, it’s still out there, and now so is Dean. Alone.

The red LED lights glowing from the alarm clock by the bed roll over to 3:00 AM before Sam leans back from his laptop and pushes it shut, pressing thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. He’s been reading for hours, caught up in old mythology, ancient tales with dead ends and ultimately nothing relevant. That’s nothing new, but the stress and concern over Dean has added a certain tension that’s wearing Sam out. His head is pounding, back stiff and vision blurry. Going to bed and starting again in the morning is incredibly tempting, but with all this rolling around in his head, how is he supposed to get to sleep?

His phone hasn’t made a sound all night. But just as he goes to check it again, a hand appears suddenly on his leg, nimble fingers darting over to snatch the phone off his knee. This has happened so many times now – a sudden presence behind him, fingers ghosting over his arm, hushed laughter and quiet murmurs startling him in complete silence - that Sam should be used to it, but he isn’t. Lucifer’s sudden, silent appearance sets him on edge, the near-electric feel of the fallen archangel’s presence breaking his arms out in goosebumps.

It’s Lucifer’s voice right next to Sam, felt even closer, straight to his chest in the strangest way, that deepens the chill and raises the hair on the back of his neck. There’s something about his tone, down under the sarcasm and often hateful, clipped quality when he gets angry. Something old, almost provocative, like velvet when he wants to be particularly persuasive. Lucifer hums softly, features turned ghostly in the light from Sam’s cellphone, says, “Still no calls. How long has it been now? A few hours? He took it a little worse than I expected.”

“Days,” Sam replies, sighing. Lucifer doesn’t quite get the time difference between Hell and Earth. He doesn’t respond, continuing to play with Sam’s cellphone. Last time Lucifer got hold of it, he managed to erase all of the stored information. The phone before that had its battery and facing melted off. “That wasn’t exactly how I wanted him to find out.”

“That’s because you didn’t want him to know in the first place.” There’s nothing malicious about the statement at all, only fact. Lucifer shrugs, another very human gesture that usually tends to perplex Sam when he isn’t mindlessly exhausted.

The hunter watches him in silence then, unable to stop himself, clears his throat and says almost reproachfully, “It’s been days since you left too.”

Predictable. Lucifer’s blank, disinterested expression transforms instantly, mouth curving up into an almost predatory smirk, and he sets the phone aside. “Sam. That almost sounds like you missed me.”

Every time Lucifer visits it’s the same thing. He asks if Sam missed him, and of course Sam denies it. Lucifer won’t lie to him, never needs to, but Sam can’t quite pay him the same respect, not about something like that. But if anyone understands matters of pride, it’s the Morningstar. So Sam lies, Lucifer looks at him in that way that says he knows better, and they move on to discussing other things. Or not speaking at all in those moments when actions speak louder.

This time, Sam says nothing, not until Lucifer shifts suddenly and is pulling Sam up out of the chair, lifting him up under the arms as if he were a small child. Then they’re on the bed, but Sam doesn’t remember walking, doesn’t recall setting one foot in front of the other to cross the ten feet from table to mattress, where Lucifer’s pushing him down onto it, forcing him to sit. 

He undresses Sam in a way that isn’t tender or provocative but efficient, removing Sam’s shirt, then his boots and jeans, discarding all of them to who knows where. Probably the floor; Sam frowns, blearily thinking how that was a good shirt, and now it’s going to be all damn wrinkled in the morning.

Lucifer’s lips are cold when they press to his forehead, his fingers just as much so when they slide down to cup Sam’s face on either side. The temperature sends a shiver through him, as always, but Lucifer’s voice is the exact opposite, somehow warm in tone, as close to caring as Sam thinks the archangel can possibly get. “You need to rest. You haven’t gotten more than two or three hours of rest a night since Dean went off on his tantrum.”

“Do not. I’ve gone two or three days at a time without sleep before.” But Lucifer’s right – Sam’s finding it all too easy to sag against him and close his eyes. Lucifer’s thumbs stroke at his temples and something about his touch is working wonders for Sam’s headache already. 

Above him, the archangel snorts softly. “I’m sorry, I must have worded that in a way that implies it’s open for negotiation.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but two fingers touch to his forehead, sending him into the most blissfully uninterrupted sleep he’s hand in weeks. 

He doesn’t dream. He doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat over a nightmare. There are no devils that try to haunt him in the night either. The only one that likes to stays curled up against his back, an arm slung warm and confining over his hip, through the entire night. 

When Dean’s phone call wakes Sam up in the morning, Lucifer’s long gone, not even an indentation in the pillow next to Sam to prove he was there. When he answers, there’s a beat of uncomfortable silence, then, “Hey man. I uh…I left my room key in there. You wanna let me in? I brought breakfast. Figure we got a few things to talk about.”

It takes Sam a minute or two to get to the door. When he went looking for his clothes, they weren’t on the floor where they landed the night before. His shirt and jeans were both folded up and set neatly on the table. Under them, he finds one of his books open, the page earmarked and lined in yellow. In one margin, in tight, looping scrawl, is a small note,

“Sam – This is what you’re looking for. I took care of one part. You take care of this, and you might get to sleep soundly two nights in a row. –L “


End file.
